Guarded
by Misakami
Summary: Sansa's outrage at her father's execution lands her a cell in the dungeon of King's Landing. The Hound is charged with her well-being during her captivity. Though their motivations are separate, the two share a desire to flee the city, and an unlikely alliance forms. Wise decisions are never made under pressure. Sansan, Sandor and Sansa.
1. Chapter 1

** I try my best to stay as in character as possible. I wrote this in a few short hours, and I would appreciate any feedback on the progression, character development, etc. Please read and review. I appreciate it greatly.

In a quiet cell, deep in the dungeon beneath King's Landing, a red-haired child wept. The silver threading of her gown, nearly luminescent in the low light, was damp with tears and wet black dirt. Hushing, gentle cries cooed from her swollen throat. Her hard tears were gone, torn from her like so many screams. Her throat bled raw, her arms spattered with half-moon impressions, the flesh gouged by her tiny white nails. Pain was numb. Her very core was a sucking wound, black, hollow, deep, radiating lead, coursing metal through her veins. The weight of her own body was crushing, killing her. She lie where she'd been thrown, arms surrounding her pounding, heavy skull.

Hatred, black as coal, swam behind her eyes, in her thoughts. It entwined and throttled her frantic heart. As the silence of the dungeon rang around her, she began to whisper prayers, not of death, but of life. Life for her father. Life for her sister. Life for Winterfell, and her loved ones waiting. Her sobs rose hoarsely as her own life entered her prayers.

She knew she would die.

How could she not? Joffrey had proved himself capable of unfathomable cruelty. His impulses collared him like a dog, chaining him to his temper and his sickest dreams. Sansa knew he was not a fitting king. He could not be a just king. Nor a wise king. Nor a strong king. He was no lion, but a viper. Joffrey would be a cruel king, with a blindsiding bite.

Or perhaps he was mad, like Aegon Targyrean.

She hated to think him mad. Madness deserved pity, not rage. And Joffrey was undeserving of her pity. Sansa wondered miserably if she was deserving now, if the city churned with her name.

_Poor girl._

_Daughter of the traitor._

_A shame to lose an honorable ally__._

She tried to force the imagination from her mind, for what use was it to wonder what others thought of her now? She would no longer be alive in a few short hours. Her head would roll as her father's had; to her feet.

To recall the scene was too much. For the first time in hours Sansa moved, only to vomit hotly. Her throat pulsed, contracted, pulsed again, forcing the remains of her morning meal from her quivering belly. Her hair was soured and sopping. She cared not. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Hand of the King; her father had been executed in front of her that day. She would soon join him. Joffrey had promised her that.

It was difficult to determine if she wished to live or not. Before her lay two paths, neither desirable. Her first path, to live, was to accept Joffrey as her husband, as her king. To share her bed with him. To bare his sons. She would let him touch her, and hurt her, and when a mother she became, he would hurt her children. Misery dawn til dusk. No love, for which she had always wanted. No happiness, that she had always craved. Was an empty life still a life? Wed to Joffrey was no life worth living.

The second path led to death, a comfort in comparison. That was her promised path.

_Sansa screamed. Her eyes reeled between Cersei and Joffrey, who moved rapidly, to Sir Ilyn and her father, whose movements crawled. Her father looked at her, and she roared louder, her strength building as she fought fiercely to move to his side. Her ears and cheeks burned and her eyes stung. Eddard looked away and she wailed, weak, knowing his fight was over. Hers would never begin. _

_Sir Ilyn had come to stand beside his target now. He had drawn his longsword. It shone in the sun. Sansa thrashed and howled, her heart hammering in her chest. Joffrey looked serene. Cersei's revulsion was plain. Behind her father, the Hound met her frantic, rolling gaze. Her father had bowed his head._

_Sansa could not make herself look away. As Sir Ilyn hoisted the blade she tried to turn her face, drag her eyelids shut, gouge out her own eyes. And yet they were transfixed as the sword swung down and took her father's head in a shower of red. The roaring crowd and her own screaming seemed suddenly insignificant, as the thump of her father's body reached her ears. He had slumped over, never to rise again._

_It was at this moment Sansa tore free of the guard. She wanted to rush to his body, but found her path blocked by Joffrey. Consumed by rage, her hands grasped his throat, and she squeezed lethally. Eyes of ice met his as he tried to gasp, her thumbs popping into his windpipe. The air around them seemed thick and shimmery, hot, tangible. Sound seemed to touch her skin and wrap around her. Sansa wondered why it was taking so long for him to die._

_As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Sansa found herself trapped against the broad breastplate of the Hound. His fingers wound in her hair, forcing her neck further than imaginable. Somewhere near her Joffrey was snarling._

_"I want her head, _now!"

_The crowd below seemed uncertain how to react. The din of encouragement had faded slightly. Sansa's eyes slowly crept toward Joffrey. Was she to be executed? His long, jeweled finger shook as he thrust it at her, his barked orders lost on her ears. She paid more attention to his throat. Pale and unscathed, to her naked eye. He was clutching it in intervals. She felt the Hound grasp her shoulder, an iron grip she couldn't shrug off. She glanced at him, and seeing his bemused expression, thrashed and fought to free herself._

_"Stop this at once." Cersei's voice, thin as glass, cut through the air. She was beside Joffrey now, her hand firmly wrapped around his trembling wrist.  
>"This has gone far enough. Eddard Stark met his end, today. Let his death be a message to the realm." She addressed the crowd, whose chatter died quickly. "Traitors will not go unpunished." Joffrey was quiet, his eyes burning into Cersei's face. His anger was molten, just under the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest disturbance. Cersei sensed this. Her voice address the Hound. "See to it that Sansa is taken to the dungeon." <em>

_Sansa let her eyes fall to her father for the last time. From her position she could see his neck clearly, cleanly severed. Blood still seeped from the wound. Had such little time passed? She had only been fatherless for seconds, but she felt aged beyond her years. _

_She allowed the Hound to escort her away from the scene. Joffrey's voice rang out behind her as she marched deftly toward the castle. _

_"You'll pay for this, bitch. I'll have your head tonight."_

Over the sound of her whimpering, Sansa heard heavy footfalls. Tonight had come, as promised.

I plan on updating this story very quickly, but the more reviews and readers I get the faster I will be motivated to post them. Please leave a review and let me know what you feel so far. Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

In the quiet of the dungeon, the echo of impending footsteps boomed like cannons in Sansa Stark's ears. Slowly, steadily, they came toward her, ever louder, and with each fall of a hefty boot her body trembled. She wondered who had come for her. Was it Ser Ilyn Payne, the blood of her father still fresh on his hands? Or could it be Joffrey himself, come to torture and violate her before her death? She shuddered to think of it; Joffrey would have no qualm taking her before her death, but somehow the setting didn't quite fit. It would be almost unnatural to commit such a vile act here, in the privacy of the dungeon. No, if it were to be done, he would do it in the light of the Gods. Cersei would never allow it, of course, but Joffrey had proved today that he had outgrown the constraints of his mother's will. His disobedience was so fitting, as was her own foolishness to think he would spare her father's life.

The scene from earlier sprang to her mind.

_Don't think of him._

_Don't think of him don't think of him don't think don't think **don't think!**_

Sansa couldn't help it. The scene was burned into her mind, behind her eyes. It would not leave, she could not make it. She saw his body, collapsed uncomfortably, and his neck, grotesque and gushing. She imagined he was still warm to the touch, there was still life in him. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and she crushed a pale hand to her lips. When did one truly die? Would her death be immediate, or would her spirit linger in her tortured flesh, in silent agony? Her father had made no cry, for which she was grateful, but that did not mean he had felt no pain. She speculated that she herself would feel everything.

Death came closer, she could feel him nearing her cell. She could not run, she could not hide. Nor did she want to. _Were_ she to live she would remain trapped here, under Joffrey's protection. Her father, who had sacrificed everything for her, could not shelter her from the harsh city she had so dreamed of seeing. Her dreams of owning this city, this city she had loved, were now torn from her. King's Landing would never be her home. She understood now her mother's resistance at seeing her young daughters brought to such a place. There was no safety, no familiarity. King's Landing could not offer her the protection of the North.

Sansa closed her eyes and pictured the endless, soft snow crunching under her thick, fur-trimmed boots. She imagined cold grey skies, frosted blades of crisp grass and warm crackling fires in the hearth. The warmth and goodness in the ancient stone walls that had surrounded and protected her since birth. In that instance, she longed for Winterfell. Her family, her friends, the faces familiar and kind to her wherever she went. Small things she had taken for granted made her stomach churn now, as guilt washed over her. The spoiled Lady Sansa of Winterfell, ungrateful for everything she had, gluttonous for a kingdom she had dreamed of. Malcontent with her privileges, unhappy with her circumstances, always. Sansa had gotten all she ever wanted in King's Landing, and yet she had still been unhappy. Her perfect life was not as perfect as she had believed.

The footsteps were nearer now. The glow of a torch was beginning to touch the blackness of her vision. With great difficulty, Sansa sat up. Whatever dignity she had remaining she wanted to cling to. She wondered if she would be allowed to clean herself before they executed her. It was doubtful. Cold vomit clung to her hair and dress. Mud streaked her puffy, red face. Sansa breathed deep and tried to center her thoughts. She smoothed her skirts and scraped her face and hair as clean as she could.

"Get up, girl."

The warmth of the torch ignited her guard's face. Mottled, ruined flesh jumped and bubbled in the dancing light. The Hound, Sandor Clegane, had returned for her, clad in full armor. His massive, rotten form repulsed her, but her face remained set. Slowly, bitterly, Sansa allowed her eyes to graze his body, coming to rest on the longsword tethered to his hip. Gods, she hated him. All of him. From his wispy, matted hair to his ugly armored feet. And everything else in between. The way his eyes reflected the torch made her ill. They were burning like black fire, with such intensity it burned her cheeks. The rush of angry, loathsome blood to her head gave her the strength to address him.

"Mongrel," she snapped. The Hound's brows twitched, then furrowed. Sansa's resignation to her fate gave her the courage to continue. "Has my beloved sent for me?"

"Aye, he has." Sansa watched astutely as the man fixed his torch to the wall opposite her cell. With the light behind him now, his expression became unreadable. Slowly, each step concise, he made his way nearer. He continued speaking, his tone tight. "He wants very dearly to see your pretty face," one gloved hand raised a loop of iron keys. "presented to his highness on a silver platter."

Sansa couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. Her heart ached and drummed so loudly in her ears her thoughts became scattered and divided. She was aware of time passing, perhaps a few seconds, or maybe minutes, where her guard merely watched. Sandor did not move or make a sound. Had Sansa closed her eyes, she could have imagined herself alone. But her bleary eyes would not shut, her fierce heart would not quiet, and her heavy body would not move. As the pause swelled, she found herself trembling. Outside her cell, the Hound was very still.

"I am obliged to cooperate with the wishes of my prince," she managed at last, her expression souring. Sandor snorted disdainfully, and thrust a key into the lock on her cell. "Will it- ... In what manner am I to be executed?" Would she lose her head like her father? Victim of a hanging? Or would her prince devise some clever, sadistic method in which to end her life?

"Well, the prince had many ideas." The door of the cell swung open. "None too pleasant, of course. Burnt at the stake, torn limb from limb, raped by the Royal Kennel and fed to them afterward," Sandor paused and caught the look of horror on Sansa's face. His hard expression seemed to quaver for a moment.

"You will not die today," he said at last.

Sansa blinked. "Pardon?"

"I mean what I said. Queen Cersei can't afford to shed anymore Stark blood. At least not today."

"Innocent blood," Sansa spat, staring at the open mouth of the cell. For the first time since the Hound had reappeared, Sansa's anger was directed toward him. He, who had held her as she had tried to kill the prince, who had guarded the monster as he ordered her father's execution. Her hatred for him burned deep in the pit of her stomach. "My father was an innocent man."

The Hound jerked his head and thrust a heavy canvas sack to her feet. "No," he said gravely. "Your father confessed to crimes against the crown. For conspiracy to overthrow Joffrey's claim to the throne. Lord Stark admitted this, and the realm believes it true."

Sansa dug her nails into her arms. "He _lied._ He only said those things to_ protect_ me, to protect our family and spare his life! Joffrey promised he would let him live!"

"And did he honor that promise?" Sandor's eyes glared meaningfully into her own.

"You _saw _that he did not," Sansa seethed, "you _saw _his wretched command and you stood by and let it happen! You know my father is innocent!" She faltered. "Was... innocent." She swallowed and steadied her tone. "You _let him die. _And you would let me die too, you would let all the good people die, and why?" She was shrieking now, but she did not care. Her words did not seem to rattle him in the slightest, only infuriating her all the more. "What _purpose_ do you serve? What will you do now?"_  
><em>

There was a moment of silence between them. Sansa, who had realized her outburst, now glowered ruefully at his face, daring him to mock her. The Hound met her gaze unabashed.

"I would let everyone die but the prince. That is what I would do," Sandor replied at last, folding his arms, as though daring Sansa to continue her interrogation. When she did not he uncrossed them, and gestured for her to acknowledge the sack he had thrown before her. She took no notice of it.

"What is to be done with me now?" She asked. After a moment, Sandor sighed and ran an armored hand across his sparsely haired head.

"As I see it, this will be handled in whichever way is most sensible for the Lannisters. What happened today will undoubtedly upset the North. You, and your sister, are essentially nothing more than bargaining material for what is to come. Dead, you are useless." He waited for a reaction. None came, so he continued. "The more alive you are, the better off the realm. At least Cersei thinks so. The boy can't understand strategy, even if it _were_ fucking explained to him."

"And my engagement?" Sansa interrupted.

"Couldn't tell you."

So she was to remain alive, for the time being. This news was difficult to process. For the first time in hours, Sansa felt lighter. Her head felt clearer. The deep ache in her body remained, but dissipated slightly. A smile of relief almost cracked her solemn face, but fell away in a heartbeat. Almost as quickly as the relief had come, guilt replaced it. Why should she survive, while her honorable father had been slaughtered only hours earlier? What kind of justice did this turn of events represent?

"And I am to stay here?" Sansa asked finally. She already knew the answer. Her outburst towards Joffery would not go unpunished. Even Queen Cersei would be unable to turn a blind eye to her actions.

"For now."

She fell quiet again. Sandor eyed her critically for a few moments before approaching her. Kneeling near her feet, he rummaged through the sack he'd brought, retrieving a few items and setting them on the ground. Small clothes and a rough tunic. Seeing them reoriented Sansa's attention to the state of her gown. Once a beautiful silvery-blue, it was now tarnished with black dirt and vomit. Many of the fine, detailed stitches were unthreading, the product of Sansa's incessant scratching and picking. She had hardly noticed how she had ruined it in the dark, but seeing them in the flickering light made her feel just as unraveled as the thread.

Suddenly, nothing seemed as important as getting out of the vile gown.

"I would undress now." Her voice, soft and far away, elicited a snort from the Hound.

"And I expect the girl will be needing her privacy?" Despite his tone, he was already rising from the ground, with some difficulty. The heavy armor he wore was no aid to him against the fragile girl, and only hindered his breadth of motion. Once standing, he straightened his armor and damned it quietly under his breath. Sansa didn't meet his eyes, her gaze directed pointedly toward the mouth of the cell. With a roving glance over Sansa's slight form, Sandor turned and stumped into the corridor, swinging the iron-barred door shut behind him. "You'll hurry," he barked over his shoulder. With that, he anchored his hands behind his back and bowed his head, offering the lady as much privacy as he dared.

Not that Sansa would attempt anything - or even could for that matter. After a few cautious seconds observing her guard, she rose to her feet and reached behind her back, searching blindly for the clasps that closed her dress. Her trembling fingers slipped and scratched the soft silk before locating a button. Forcing all of her concentration to the task, she had soon wrestled it open, and began searching for the next one. She exhaled in relief, then let a groan of frustration escape her as she realized how impossible this task would be alone.

"What's that, girl?" Sandor's head raised, though his eyes remained trained on the wall before him. Sansa stiffened. She had few options, given her circumstances. Either she stayed in the gown, permitted she would even be allowed to, or she would have to remove it. And seeing as she could not remove it herself, it seemed likely she would require assistance.

"Ser Clegane-"

"I told you before, I'm no 'Ser.'" His gruff words halted her momentarily. What she called him was unimportant.

"Alright." Sansa gulped air. Her stomach turned over. She felt cold sweat break out on her skin, and yet she persisted. _The sooner you say it, the sooner it will be finished._ "I might request of you a favor," she spoke slowly, her voice hardly more than a mumble.

"Favor?"

"Yes." Merely the thought sickened her. "My gown is not meant to be removed by its wearer. If it is permissible with you, I shall keep it on."

"That filthy thing? Even if it were '_permissible' _I'd still not allow that."Sandor shifted his weight. "Prince Joffrey sees it unfitting for his prisoner to wear the gown of a lady. I will return the gown to him." Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed. She could not bring herself to say the words. At last, it was the Hound who broke the silence.

"May I turn around?"

Sansa nodded, and then realizing Sandor could not see her, vocalized her permission with a whimper. The Hound revolved and approached the door.

"No!" Sansa gasped, stopping him in his tracks. She backed away a few steps. What would she do? What would _he _do? Sandor's expression darkened, and with a sigh of exasperation he retrieved the ring of keys from his hip.

"If I'm to do it myself, I'd much rather have your cooperation than hold your bloody arms behind your back," he snapped, thrusting the key in the lock.

"Stop, _stop!" _Sansa shrieked. "I will, I'll cooperate," her thoughts grasped for some solution, "just _please_ keep outside."

It wasn't much of a solution. But Sansa reasoned that with the bars between them, she had some semblance of safety from the brute of a man. Her words had paused the Hound in his actions. She glanced tentatively at his face, expecting to see resistance. There was none, though a bitter crease folded his brow. After a moment of appraisal at her suggestion the Hound seemed to commit, replacing the keys to his side. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief and slowly approached the bars of the cell. The light of the torch shone in her face and she winced against it.

"Let's hurry this along," Sandor grunted, motioning for Sansa to turn for him. She did so, at the same time lifting the fallen tendrils of her messy hair off her back and shoulders. She moved towards the bars until the cold iron rested against her. He was not too close to her, but she could feel his presence all the same. She waited for his touch to come, and when it did she shivered, an icy chill running through her entire body. She tensed and clenched her jaw, her fingers balled into tight fists. "Relax, little bird," came a voice near her ear.

How could she possibly relax? The Hound's clumsy, uncoordinated hands jabbed sharply against her spine, popping the buttons of her gown and jerking the folds messily. Within seconds the fabric had loosened around her shoulders, which Sansa reached instinctively to cover. Quickly, the gown fell apart in the back, leaving her corset visible to the man behind her. He began picking at the lace, though after a minute Sansa realized he was struggling.

"Perhaps, if you removed your gloves," she suggested timidly, to which the Hound only grunted. His hands left her back momentarily, returning moments later warm and soft. His thick fingers worked dexterously to loosen the lace holding her together. The looser it got, the faster her breathing became. His touch on her back made her sick, and his hot, even breath near her ear had her skin crawling. With mounting disgust, Sansa tried to quash the nausea in her sore stomach. When the hard, calloused skin of his fingertip grazed a patch of open flesh she jolted, her gown falling away from her shoulders entirely.

"I think I can manage from here," she whispered, bile catching in the back of her throat. She moved briskly toward the far corner of her cell, Sandor's limp hands allowing her dress to slip from his grasp. With her back to him, Sansa deftly unstrung the last of the lace from her corset and shifted it apart. A glance over her shoulder told her the Hound had not moved from his position. "If you wouldn't mind," she whispered, clutching her dress to cover herself. His eye caught hers, and with an exasperated gesture he turned his back to her once again.

"As you wish."

Of course that was what she wished. The hard part was over with. The only thing left remaining would have been to slip the dress from her very skin. The very notion of the Hound undressing her any further was positively abhorrent. Now, Sansa was faced with a dilemma; should she keep her eyes on the man outside her cell, and risk him turning to see her nakedness? Or should she trust he would not look, and keep her back to him? In either case, she felt violated.

In the end, she decided to keep her back to him, covering herself as best she could with folds of dirty, silken fabric. Halfway through undressing, she paused to gather the pile of new clothes that lay in the middle of the cell. Sansa kept her eyes trained on the Hound all the while, expecting at any moment for him to chance a glance toward her. Though she still wore her smallclothes, she felt a burn of shame under her skin. No man had ever seen her so naked before. When the time came for her to strip them off she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to the back of the Hound's mangy head. He hadn't moved a muscle, but still her heart raced. With bated breath, she shucked the remaining scraps of clothing from her skin, letting them crumple beneath her skinny feet. Within seconds she had yanked the fresh small clothes on, tunic jammed over them. Sansa took a moment to straighten and adjust the clothing before gathering her old things into a bundle. She approached the door of the cell and waited for her guard to turn.

"I've finished," Sansa muttered after a moment, and Sandor raised his head.

"Took you long enough."

He turned and met her at the cell door, taking the parceled clothing under one arm. It occurred to Sansa that this might be the last time she saw him - or anyone for that matter - for a long time. A thousand questions sprang into her mind.

"Will I be able to bathe? Is someone going to bring meals for me? Can I have visitors?" Her stomach knotted. "Will Joffrey be coming?"

The Hound only sighed and rubbed the bridge of his long nose. "I couldn't tell you. This has all happened very fast, and if I'm not mistaken, the Lannisters have plenty more to worry about than your comfort at the moment."

"So Joffrey won't be coming?"

"I tell you I don't know, girl," Sandor spat. "You might get a meal, you might get a trial first. You might have a bath before that. For now, try to compose yourself." His eyes raked across her face, and Sansa bowed her head in shame. She could feel the grime and dirt on her swollen skin. Some vain corner of her mind felt humiliated to be seen in such a way.

"Will you be leaving now?" She managed weakly, and the Hound nodded.

"Aye. You'll try to rest now." Sansa searched his face for some hidden answers to her questions, but found none. If she weren't mistaken, his face looked as honest and uncertain as his words had been. But the truth did not quite touch his eyes.

As the fading light of the torch brought darkness to Sansa's vision once more, she wondered whether Sandor knew more than he had led her to believe.


End file.
